


Let No One Weep For Me

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Breathplay, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mark of Cain ignites a change in Dean and Castiel can't help but indulge in it. Post 9x11.</p>
<p>  <i>When he looked down, Dean's eyes were wide with sex and darkness—a slippery evil that didn't belong to the Righteous Man, but to the Father of Murder. In that moment, when their eyes met, death was seductive and beautiful—and he wanted to die.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let No One Weep For Me

Castiel shuddered. It was a sort of fear that he, as an angel, shouldn't be able to feel, running deep to the marrow of his bones. An emotion purely human, completely alien. It slithered inside his stomach, both hot and cold, rotting him from the inside out. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Hot, everything hot. The candle flickered and light chased shadow on the ceiling. He waited. Listened to the haunted rhythm of his heart. _Boom, boom. Boom, boom._

Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps. He let loose a low hiss as his Grace burned, crackling in his veins like electricity. The door opened.

_Keep your eyes on the ceiling._

He notched his chin higher, taking in the bed's headboard, the leather binding around his wrists—the mattress dipped and it made him suck in a sharp breath. Another involuntary shudder, muscles drawn tight to the point that his entire body trembled with the strain. Nervousness fluttered through him like a swarm of angry bees, each shiver stripping his nerves to nubs. His brain screamed with the stress of it all, and beyond it, a perverse sense of... _evil_ slipped over his skin like a silk sheet. Lightweight, delicate. Seductive. Gentle fingers moved an errant strand of hair across his forehead and the touch alone made his body react in a way he didn't want. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, his throat dry and agitated. Turned his head away. In the dark, a sound of amusement.

A thumb settled on his bottom lip, forefinger hooking just under his chin. Instinctively, he turned his head back, but never opened his eyes because he knew better than to look. His lips parted under the thumb's light pressure, a pulse of warm breath over his face before it happened. A mouth pressed against his, soft and gentle, sweeter than sin. An airy noise—a whimper, a groan—escaped his throat. He opened his mouth and a tongue slipped in, teasing him with a flicker or two before backing out again. Nothing more than just a taste. 

He was left naked without it. The touch at his temple back again like a cheap substitute. This time, he turned into it, leaving a kiss on skin—his forearm, maybe—several more trailing down, searching... until he found it. The Mark of Cain. It bumped under his lips and his Grace rolled like boiling water. So... wrong on his flesh, so... intoxicating. He ran his tongue across it just to taste its corruption, the jolt to his body the same as if he'd licked a battery. There was a sudden shot of adrenaline and it left him woozy, his heart a parade in his ears. More gentle touching on his temple. More returned affection.

Then nothing. He had pulled away.

Silence.

The warm air of the room folded him in an embrace while emptiness ate away at him. The smell of burning candle kept him company; a bullet train of energy zipping through his veins. Like an addict without his drug, Castiel lay there, unable to keep his body still. Every shift of the room causing him to jump, every noise a shotgun blast to his brain. Anticipation ran him wild. Fear kept him in check. First, there was nothing. Painfully nothing. Then, there were hands, gripping his ankles, yanking his body down, flipping him over with a hard jerk. The blanket gave him a cotton-kiss on his cheek, the smell of it as stale as the air. When fingers dug into his hips, Castiel winced. They were merciless, these touches, bruising and unforgiving. Hands yanking him back so that his knees folded under his body, his naked ass hanging just off the end of the bed. Wrists still bound. Fingers unable to touch. 

Frustration mounted in his stomach—then twisted with something else. He was spread apart and spat on, a thumb rubbing in the spittle over his hole, teasing along the rim. A breath escaped him with a rush, taking everything with it. The nervousness, the fear, the tension in his muscles... Castiel cried out with the first sweep of his tongue, burying his face hard into the mattress. Another lick, hard and incessant, turning his bones to jelly. He twisted his bound wrists as he was mouthed again, over and over, the constant pressure and rhythm like a thousand suns. Frying his insides with how... incredible it felt. He panted into the coverlet, biting it as the licking and sucking continued. Little tongue flicks, then long sweeps from his balls to his hole. Face buried deep into him, giving, giving until he couldn't take it, until he cried out again. It left him breathless. Heaving. And when it stopped, when the pleasure dissipated, fear settled into the fissures. The nervousness returned. The sick blade of anticipation carved into his skin.

Because where there was giving, there was always a reckoning. 

Rough hands pushed him forward. This time, the blanket bit at his cheek and knees, burning them. No soft cotton-kisses, no comforting embrace. Just a foreshadowing. Painful and bleak. Fingers grabbed his ankles and tossed him over, leaving behind crescent marks in his skin. Like a snake, he wiggled on his back up, up, until his head bumped into the headboard. The pain jolted him and his eyes flew open with surprise.

_Don't look. Don't ever look._

But he did—and he shuddered.

In the dark, Dean moved toward him on hands and knees, cock stiff and imperious between his legs. There was a lethal grace that hadn't existed before and it was threaded through every muscle in his body. Dangerous, domineering. Absolutely exhilarating. Castiel took in an unsteady breath as Dean crawled the length of him, hovering just over his body. The candlelight flickered, and in his green eyes, something dark slithered, black as an eel. Whatever it was, whatever lurked there, Castiel wasn't brave enough to put a name to it. It made his skin shiver. It left him breathless. Hard—and wet.

Castiel arched his back as Dean touched him again; the brush of a thumb along his jaw line. He wanted to be grabbed and bruised, wanted to feel pain and pleasure because, as an angel, he had no right to feel those things. But somehow, Dean did that—made him _feel_ —with his long, cursory gaze, stripping him raw and leaving him vulnerable. Made him feel pain because Dean wasn't touching him; pleasure because Dean was giving him all the attention in the world. Dean's gaze raked over him like he was a piece of meat, and Castiel whimpered. Pressed his hips up as much as he could just to feel the passing friction of Dean's cock. And when he did, when it stole the breath from his lungs, his mind blew and it left him disorientated.

Somewhere, a drawer opened. There was a glint of sharp light and a keen edge of clarity.

With a crooked smile, Dean held a blade, marveling at its razor edge. So stunned by its beauty that Dean sat back, straddling Castiel's hips between his strong thighs. Castiel let out a low moan and pressed his head back into the mattress. Dean's vision, the blade in his hand—traded in for the bed's headboard. Pure bliss rolled down his body as Dean's impossible warmth settled on him, a reprieve from the absolute torture of not being touched or handled. A moment of breath before _it_ started—the reckoning. 

It began with the tip of the blade. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath through his nose as cold steel touched his skin, but didn't cut. Not yet. It traced a rib to his center, traveled down to his navel so slowly, so gently, that he let out another fateful noise. Not out of fear. Not dread, but pure unadulterated _need_. The noise drew out the viper from its nest and Dean kissed him hard, abusing his lips, nipping the corner of his mouth. The sharp pain made him cry out in a way that was completely inhuman. Deranged. He needed the pain. It made him _feel_.

Dean made him _feel_. He was the venom that coursed through his veins.

The blade traveled up this time, along his stomach, flush against his sternum, to his collarbone, then down. Dean didn't stop kissing him, his mouth savage the way the blade _wasn't_. When Dean jerked forward, his hips crushed his, undoubtedly leaving mottled bruises behind. Somewhere, somehow, his skin brushed against the Mark on Dean's forearm and, for a moment, everything went hot-white. His Grace churned like a volcano, turning his insides to molten lava. The pain... indescribable. Excruciating. Transcendent.

His mouth hung open soundlessly, then it happened; a groan so loud, coming from so deep, that it sounded other-worldly, from the pits of Hell, sealed with a kiss from Heaven. The pain lingered, his body wracked with tremors. Dean kissed his throat soothingly, his collarbone, his chest... then smiled devilishly against his skin. It was the only warning he had before the blade nicked him. He didn't need to look to know he was bleeding. A bead of blood warmed the skin around his nipple, the pain making it harden like a glass bead. Dean covered it with his wet mouth and began to suckle at it lightly, lavishing it with his tongue in some sort of sick... apology. Unable to touch him, Castiel could only wriggle his bound wrists, arch his chest up so Dean could suck harder. Dean flicked his tongue over it, then mouthed it again, more lips than teeth until it wasn't. When Dean nipped at him, Castiel shot out another groan, wincing as the pain began to mount into something almost unbearable. The undeniable heat in his lower body sparked and began to burn out of control. He'd lose himself like this, with Dean sucking on him, biting him when the urge for violence rose. He needed to last a little bit longer. _Needed_ to.

Another nibble sent his head banging into the headboard. His head swam with it, but he didn't care. When he looked down, Dean's eyes were wide with sex and darkness—a slippery evil that didn't belong to the Righteous Man, but to the Father of Murder. In that moment, when their eyes met, death was seductive and beautiful—and he wanted to die. _Break me, tear me apart_ , was what he said when he exposed his throat, head turned to one side. He could feel Dean's cold smile in the dark, the even colder steel against his neck. Under its keen edge, his pulse point fluttered like a delicate butterfly. His world stopped spinning. Everything stilled. He was trapped in a single precious heartbeat before death—except death never came. 

But pain... pain would.

The blade clattered in the dark.

There was a breath. 

Then agony.

Dean shoved inside without prepping or stretching him. Brutal with his thrusts. Dull pain spread through his body, not as excruciating as it could've been had Dean not left him wide and broken with their sex hours earlier. Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean's hips and took everything Dean had to give him. Reveling in the slow bleed into pleasure and the little shudders of bliss his body made as Dean drove deep inside of him. Dean let out a low grunting sound, dark and rich. The Father of Murder didn't groan, didn't show his pleasure like the Righteous Man did, with beautiful sounds that made his heart sing. Here, now, he was an object to be taken and abused, ripped apart and put away tattered and torn. In the hands of his Righteous Man, he was delicate china, precious and worthy of soft kisses and loving touches. With the Mark of his arm, his Righteous Man died a little more every day.

He didn't know if he should mourn.

Dean snapped his hips into him, the slapping sound of flesh on flesh hard and wet. Suddenly, Castiel couldn't breathe. His throat and nose refused to draw in breath—couldn't because Dean's fingers were wrapped around his neck. The Father of Murder fucked him while choking him, squeezing and squeezing until the stress of the effort was written on his beautiful face. Castiel scrabbled with useless hands and fingers, finding sheets and headboard to hold onto. In the dimming chaos of his mind, he thought about fighting back. Hitting him over the head with the dead-drop weight of his fists. He didn't. Only struggled to breathe, making choked-out noises sick in the back of his throat, whimpering and squirming as much as he could. Grabbing, grabbing at the pleasure of Dean's thrusts even as he lay dying in his hands. The hot pressure built and built inside of his body... he was... so close... to death, to climax, he didn't know. 

In the violence, there was a moment when their eyes locked. A heartbeat.

The Righteous Man stared back at him and let go.

With the rush of air, came his orgasm, vengeful and absolute like a biblical plague. Murdered him through and through. Castiel kicked his head back and gulped in air, gasping after it as if this was the first time he had the privilege to breathe. Through the haze of recapturing life, breathing, thinking, his eyes snapped open. His senses awakened. Come dripped down the headboard from the sheer force of his climax; his body weak and broken, but still loose enough to give and give as Dean shoved into him one last time. It was the Righteous Man who groaned out, breaking over a bass-baritone note of love and surrender. Breathtaking in its earthiness, burned coal-dark and rough. Dean collapsed and settled like liquid over his body, each of them fighting for the same air. For a moment, it was the two of them; the Righteous Man and his angel, skin to skin. Then it was nothing. Dean rolled off him without a word of concern, a kiss, or a lingering touch. Castiel mourned the loss.

When Dean was asleep, he was the Righteous Man. Innocent in his dreams of family bonds and obligations. But when he was awake—Castiel shuddered. As an angel, he shouldn't be able to feel fear. Not a fear of dying, but of what he himself was becoming. A man that wanted to be abused, a man addicted to the pain. A fear that he was slowly falling in love with the Father of Murder and he couldn't stop it.


End file.
